University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Hendricks, Oswald, and Chaplain.
Oswald.
Hail! noble Hendricks, this auspicious morn.

Hendricks.
To our fair arms, auspicious, let it be,
But to the foe indignant, and severe,
Like that sad day, when in Beth-horon's vale,
The Jewish Capthin, smote the Canaanite,
By Heaven's assistance, which, upon them rain'd,
Her rocky hail—

Oswald.
—Look not for miracles,
Or hand of Heaven, heroic youth, to day.
For the late world enjoying what is past,
Of supernatural display to man,
Is left to general laws; no more vouchsaf'd,
Uncommon aid, of the dividing sea,
So swift o'erwhelming the Egyptian King,
Or of that Angel, who is one night slow,
So many squadrons of the Assyrian host.

Chaplain.
I grant, sweet youth, we may not hope from Heav'n,
The sudden vengeance of red fiery wrath,
To blast the foe; but yet the Almighty reigns,
O'er every act, and enterprize of man.
To frown upon, or bless it with his smile.
He unperceiv'd, can from the unchanged course,
Of Nature's settled laws, with ease bring forth,
Events particular; with equal ease,
As when its mound, the mighty ocean pass'd,
In Noah's day, and deluged the world.
Or when an earthquake, rending the deep earth,
Took in its bosom, those that mutined,
Against their Captain, in the wilderness.
Rest then assur'd, that heavenly Providence,
In this late age, accompanies our steps,
And guides our every action, prospering them,
Or laying the expectation, and high hope, in dust.
He can give courage to the warrior's breast,
Or, if it please him, can deject the soul,
With power invisible. He has his cloud,
To wrap the starry firmament of night,
When the skill'd General steals upon the foe,
Or when he prudently, in some retreat,
Draws off the wearied troops. He has his fog,
Which providentially may form a veil,
In the sun's face, and the deep council hide.
The Almighty reigns, distributing to each,
That which we call our lot. Not one hair falls,
Of our head, to the ground, but it is numbered.
He reigns, and gives to innocence, its due reward,
But to the guilty, punishment and death.

Oswald.
Then if the guilty shall have punishment,
May we not hope, that this proud cruel foe,
Shall meet an ample share, and yield this day,
In battle vanquished. If Heav'n protect,
Distressed innocence, and injured right,
We sure may hope, that this our patriot cause,
Shall triumph finally, and scorn the rage,
Of Britain's parliament and bloody King.

Chaplain.
A firm persuasion, hath possess'd my mind,
That this fair cause, shall triumph finally;
But the complexion, of the ensuing hour,
We cannot tell. It may be fortunate,
And yet as partial, to the whole event,
It may be clouded, and deep wrought with woe.
Just so the morning of an April day,
When spring repulses the rude wintry year,
I buried of, in the descending rain;
But soon, the warm sun bursts the watry cloud,
Gives chearful noon, and bids the evening mild,
On herbs and flowers, shed only her soft dews.

Hendricks.
I am resign'd to the dispose of Heav'n;
Let whatsoever be our fate to day,
Or my particular lot. Yet I could wish,
Once more to see the Susquehanna banks,
My native rocks, and sweet resounding hills,
Where I have fondly stray'd, delightful stream,
Where I have sported, in the summer's day,
And bath'd my limbs, and angling from a rock,
Caught with my father, the too cred'lous fish,
That silvered the tide. My father lives
With aged hoary locks, the frost of years.
'Tis mine to aid his swift-declining strength,
And hold his trembling steps—

Oswald.
—Come Gentlemen,
The troops, have early snatch'd a short repast,
And now to arms, brave Arnold, leads them forth;
In his division rang'd, we scale the wall.

SCENE II.

Hendricks and Arnold.
Arnold.
'Tis yours, brave Hendricks, to command the guard,
Of this encampment, while we storm the town.

Hendricks.
Since you vouchsafe the epithet of brave,
Let me deserve it, and go forth with you.
Some may be found, who would prefer this post,
Which, I shall hold, reluctantly. No Sir;
If I have merited one thought from yoe.
Of praise, or confidence, in this long march,
And perseverance, thro' the wilderness,
Have me excus'd, from such inglorious task.
I would go forth, and mingle in the attack.
That when old age comes on me, and slow years,
I may have things to tell, atchiev'd in war,
Of which, I bore a part. Then shall the youth,
Encircling me, request the hoary head,
Of this fam'd siege; who first assail'd the wall—
What warriors fell—who wounded in the attack—
How long 'twas fought—and how we gain'd the town.

Arnold.
I honour, Sir, the high heroic worth,
Of this fair choice, and shall immediately,
Supply that station, with some other troops.
I count it happy that I go with men,
Who thirst for danger, and renown in arms.
Your station shall be chang'd, and in the van,
You shall have scope to shew your fortitude,
And purchase glory, that shall never die.

SCENE III.

Montgomery and Campbell:
Campbell.
We hold ourselves, in readiness, what time,
We have your orders to parade in arms.

Montgomery.
In some few moments, when the early day,
Shall mix its breaking with departing shades,
And give a dubious light. This interval,
In conversation, we may here, exhaust.
Far other thought, O Campbell, fill'd my mind,
When first, a soldier, on the Abraham's heights,
I stood in arms. Then, in Britannia's cause,
I drew my sword, and charg'd the rival Gaul.
I felt for her a patriot's generous heat;
And step'd, exultingly, when fair Quebec,
Saw British standards on her rocky walls.
Full, in my memory, I retain the view;
Each circumstance, as if but yesterday.
Here Monckton stood; there Townshand rang'd himself;
And here, great Wolfe, in noble strength of soul,
Array'd the battle, and the men in arms.
O mighty Wolfe, if yet, thy warlike shade,
Revisitest these heights, and rocky streams,
Be witness here, in this unnatural strife,
Where a mad mother doth her children stab.
You, when you fought, did not unsheath the sword
Against your countrymen, and younger sons;
Did not excite, with cruel artifice,
The wild-wood Savage of the gloomy hill,
To drink Bostonian blood. No mighty shade;
Britannia then was free herself; her King,
Call'd not for butchers, to secure his sway
T'yrannical, and to be held with blood.
Unhappy reign of an inhuman George!
I saw it early, and withdrew myself,
To sweet retirement, on the Hudson's banks.
And am persuaded, that had mighty Wolfe,
Surviv'd his victory, his native isle,
O'er-run with parasites, that drink the looks
Of flatter'd Majesty, and base-born Lords,
Would have disgusted him. This western land,
With shades, and solitudes, and wood crown'd hills
Had better pleas'd. He could have lov'd her glades,
O'er-hung with poplars, and the bending bench,
Fan'd by the Zephyr's gale. He could have lov'd,
The budding orchard, and the oak tree grove,
And thought, no more, of luxuries enjoy'd
With prostitution of the free-born mind
If Wolfe had liv'd, would he have drawn his sword,
In Britain's cause—in her unrighteous cause,
To chain the American, and bind him down?
O no, his soul, by Nature elegant,
With liberal sentiment and knowledge, stor'd,
Would not have suffered it; I rather think,
Nay, I well know it, that himself had led,
Perhaps, once more, an army to Quebec,
To drive these tyrants out. He had obey'd
Rather, the dictates of an upright soul,
Than the commandment of a tyrant King
But now the time, that we draw forth in arms
Revolves to us. Then, through the standing tents,
Let us return, and with high thought of war,
Fire every bosom, with a martial glow.